


Always Remain

by thesadchicken



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, and slight fluff, slight angst, valentine's day fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 04:24:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9701171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesadchicken/pseuds/thesadchicken
Summary: A declaration of love can take many forms. It was in early February that John Watson discovered this.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This little story was inspired by three entirely different things:  
> 1) Valentine's Day.  
> [ 2) This screencap. ](http://imgur.com/2gcn0C6)  
> [ 3) This breathtaking piece ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qQcv4RX8pPM) (the same one Holmes and Watson listen to in this story)

It was at the theatre that my friend Sherlock Holmes first uttered those few words that would later prove to be decisive in my life. I often wondered, in the months that followed, why he found it reasonable to speak them in such a public place. But I now see that he thought none of what he said secret or shameful. He simply let the music whisk him away, as it always did, and in that moment of true sincerity he confided in me. To a stranger reading this account, his words may seem insignificant, but to me they brimmed – and indeed still, until today, brim – with meaning.

It was in early February. The opera house was featuring _Thaïs_ , a highly acclaimed, if only slightly controversial, _comédie lyrique_. My companion was intent on seeing it, and as was his custom he urged me to come along, with the hope that his own taste for the finer arts might influence me. I accompanied him, not because I was particularly fond of operas, but because I found his company enjoyable. More than once during such outings I would find myself enjoying the music as well, but it would be foolish to deny that my enthusiasm for the theatre would have been considerably less prominent were it not for my friend’s calming presence at my side.

Thus we left Baker Street on that grey evening, and he tucked his arm beneath mine as we walked. I remember London being unnaturally quiet. Indeed, I could hear our footsteps on the cold pavement and Holmes humming a peaceful tune. Not a soul roamed under the winter sky. We were quite alone. This may seem impossible, but that is the exact way I recall it – one may think that my mind has treacherously altered my memory of the night, and if that is the case pray forgive me, my poor reader, for this somewhat romanticized recollection of true events.

As we walked to the opera house, Holmes gently gripped the crook of my elbow with his gloved hand. I turned towards him, but his eyes were staring dreamily ahead. I smiled to myself, watching him with a tenderness I only allowed myself to feel in such moments. When all was quiet and he was with me. When the day was dying and his arm brushed mine. When I knew him to be my truest friend – and I his.

We arrived early and were seated not far from the stage. Holmes was particularly pleased with this; he rubbed his palms together and told me he believed tonight would be very pleasant indeed. I agreed with him wholeheartedly.

As I was removing my scarf and gloves, I noticed him peering at me in a rather curious manner. “Is there something wrong?” I questioned him, but he shook his head thoughtfully. His gaze lingered on me a moment more before turning towards the stage.

The curtains soon parted and music began drifting in the air. During the next thirty minutes I was completely absorbed in the performance.

Then came the entr’acte, and with it the rustling of cloth against cloth as some spectators shifted in their seats. Holmes, however, remained perfectly still. The orchestra had started playing a mournful tune. My friend closed his eyes and rested his chin upon his breast. A smile tugged gently at the corner of his mouth, and he seemed to resist it for a few seconds before giving in. The softest of sighs escaped his lips. In that moment he appeared to become one with the music. And he turned to me.

Just as deft fingers flew over piano keys, his eyelids fluttered over his irises. As bow brushed strings, his hand brushed mine. And as the violin moaned, my memory took me to places long forgotten.

I remembered the smallest of details – they are by far the most important. I remembered the sunlight filtering through the windows, and specks of dust hovering in the air. I remembered the buzzing of a bee, and Holmes chuckling. I remembered a fleeting feeling of annoyance, rapidly replaced by a rush of affection, and Holmes’ fingers closing around my wrist. Then his voice, whispering in the privacy of our rooms. His eyes, gleaming, curious; probing, teasing. A question on my lips, left unspoken. Left unanswered. And his words sliding over me as I observed him, too immersed in him, with him, swept into his world.

The memory faded and I was ejected back into the present. Holmes was drawing invisible circles onto my open palm with the tips of his fingers. I looked at him. Our eyes met.

“I must leave,” I gasped. My limbs felt numb and my hands shook: suddenly, the most inexplicable of terrors had taken over my usually collected mind.

Holmes briskly ended the small physical contact we had and reclined onto his seat. I found myself unable to move, despite the panic rising in my chest. “I must leave now,” I panted helplessly.

A silent understanding passed between us at that moment. He knew my inner turmoil; he saw it with a clarity I myself lacked. In a second his posture changed: he relaxed further, his arms fell into his lap and his gaze took an intense quality. I was transfixed by him, as I ever was and ever shall be.

“Don’t go, Doctor,” he breathed, “I should prefer that you always remain.”

I understood, as he spoke, that one day I would give in to the pull of gravity drawing me towards him. I was his, and I had been since the moment we met. I would of course resist at first. And yet I knew, as the music played on that gloomy winter evening, that I was entirely his.

The music faded gradually. The violin sang alone, wailing its lamentations in the warmth and darkness of the opera house. Sherlock Holmes held my hand in his and smiled. My heart pounded against my chest. He smelt of tobacco and herbs and honey, a familiar blend that sent me reeling once more into a world of memories. Soft cloth pulled against my naked calves, Holmes reading by the fire, his hair falling in a tangle of curls over his forehead, his tongue flicking over his lips once, and his smell filling the room.

I hesitated before I squeezed his hand in return. His smile faltered but did not disappear. I ran my fingers over his knuckles. We stared at each other, drowning into each other.

 _Always remain_ , he had said. Heart and soul, I knew I would.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's day everyone!


End file.
